


A Different Epilogue

by missmarianne



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25284790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmarianne/pseuds/missmarianne
Relationships: Pyotr "Pierre" Kirillovich Bezukhov/Natalya "Natasha" Ilyinichna Rostova, Vassily Dmitrich Denisov/Sofia "Sonya" Alexandrovna Rostova
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	A Different Epilogue

E P I L O G U E

I.

The night Pierre was to go to St. Petersburg, it snowed, delaying his departure. The household, sensing something ominous in the season’s first downfall, insisted he remain. Pierre was shown to a guest room, where he accepted the turn of events with blundering and gracious thanks to Princess Bolkonsky and the servants who led him there. Pierre then spent the night in a state oscillating between elation and confusion.  
In another wing of the house, Natasha found it impossible to sleep. Dreams twisted her mind, as tangled as the sheets which wrapped like snakes around her ankles. She fell out of each one, through darkness, and onto her bed with the sensation of dropping and confusion.  
Between these dreams, Natasha’s mind returned most frequently to that conversation with Marya, in which she had heard of Pierre’s love.  
It was the middle of the night. Her eyes had grown dry, and sleep refused to come. Moved by a flurry of agitation, Natasha threw on her cloak over her nightclothes, and crept through the yard, outdoors.

Beyond the gate, the air was thick with falling snow.  
Natasha felt the sting against her cheeks, but did not flinch. She breathed deeply, casting off the confinement of her rooms, and settled into the great calmness of the crisp autumnal air.  
In her present state, the clouds of whiteness seemed not so much like snow as they were baubles or faeries, so soft was their descent. It suggested memories as sweet and round as paintings, of her and Sonya and Nikolai in winters past, cozied around the fire and swaddled in furs.  
Feeling her eyes drawn upward, Natasha saw the sky. Its vastness was rent above her: a great blue-black dome of clouds. The sight of sky amid the nostalgia of snow and the queer tightness in her chest conjured some emotion, both strange and familiar. It was some song she might have sung in childhood, for an audience she had never imagined.  
Yes, Natasha thought, letting her cloak fall open so her neck was bared, yes, all this is happening just as it should be. Everything is happening, and I am here.  
It was a delightful secret she shared with herself.  
Marya was upstairs, warm and abed. Somehow, knowing her friend was snug and indoors, made Natasha’s lonesomeness in the cold all the more splendid.

Pierre, too, was inside.  
His presence acted as a catalyst to this night and this feeling, in the way that vodka will make one light and heady, and make conversations lengthen until the small hours of the morning.  
Natasha knew that she loved him. It seemed she had always known it, though in fact the realization had been sudden and unexpected only days before.  
To think, it had only been months ago she had spied his vast, familiar figure from her moving carriage on the streets of Moscow. Even then, Pierre’s eyes had danced in special recognition upon noticing her. Natasha had already begun to think of this expression as her face. A week ago, she had seen that expression again. It was an unraveling and a twinkling, akin almost to befuddlement, which gave Natasha a sense of lightness and profundity. She had never thought to see her look upon his face again, yet here he was. The qualities which had always made Pierre amusing to her had somehow been perfected since seeing him last.  
In the glow of the present expectation, all the incidental nature of their friendship appeared not incidental at all, but prophetic.

But how could that be? Natasha berated herself suddenly. Something lurched unpleasantly in her belly. A memory, never distant from her mind, of a slim, goodly man, draped over a bed...The impression of solemnity and transcendence...She had wept enough for the recollection that now she did not. Still, it was painful to remember him.  
Just as Natasha was thinking thus, shivering with pleasure and fear and cold, straining against the grayish color of the darkness, she longed to see better. In one of those queer, synchronous moments, it seemed nature heard her.  
The clouds, previously a velvet gray sheet, parted.  
Moonlight pierced the white frost so everything shone.  
Natasha felt grateful tears begin to damp her cheeks, mixing with the melting snow. Naive though her first impression seemed, she found herself thinking that some heavenly expression of Andrei Bolkonsky was responsible.

Natasha had formerly not been in the habit of considering her own thoughts and actions. It had always seemed to her that any present desire or notion was right and worthy of pursuit. So, it was with difficulty that she invited the quiet winter night into her heart, and held still amidst her own desires.  
She loved Pierre. Yet, she had once loved Andrei. But, she had—cringing to think of it—believed she loved Anatole. She had loved Boris and Denisov and her dancing teacher and everyone who sparkled at balls and everyone who smiled as if they were possessed of some tempting secret. She, too, had loved Petya. She loved Nikolai and Sonya. She now loved Marya, too. There was no pattern of logic to the chain. If nothing else, it seemed clear that love was not sin. Love was that which knit. It was the sense of the immortal in every mortal, a desire to return to some Oneness which was beyond any single one’s grasp.  
Natasha dried her cheeks. She had been wrong. Andrei was not in the moon, nor hiding behind it. If he existed at all, it was in a place so inaccessible to her currently, that he was lost. To behave as though he was still some figure which might receive her romantic affections was not only incorrect, it was a disservice to that threshold which he had crossed.  
Andrei, himself, had loved Pierre.  
With a bowed head, Natasha forgave. She forgave, first, herself. More than herself, she forgave that inexplicable force which we call fate. It was not a dual love she felt, but the rallying of a higher, spiritual love, made earthly, which fixed itself on Pierre.  
The sound of footsteps behind her, muffled by snow, made her turn.  
Pierre was wearing an old greatcoat. Natasha was not surprised to see him there; still, she blushed happily at the collision of her imagining of him with his tangible presence.  
Peeking out of his brown coat, Pierre appeared almost like a brown bear.  
Unable to restrain herself, Natasha laughed.  
“What?” he asked, standing beside her.  
“Is it true you once chained a bear to a policeman?”  
Pierre’s eyebrows ruffled up in surprise.  
“Once,” he said with a frown. “Countess, are you—”  
“Yes,” Natasha replied, so certain of her answer that she could not hear the end of his question. “Do you see the sky?”  
It was as if she need him to see everything too, in order to remember that this moment was one they shared.  
Pierre gestured. “Stars.”  
Natasha looked. Scattered like ashes, a field of stars hung where there had once been only clouds.  
“It’s beautiful.”  
“Yes,” said Pierre. He began to twist his hands. “Countess...”  
Natasha knew what he was about to say, but wanted very much to hear it. She kept her face tilted away, modeling her expression into one of obliviousness.

Pierre tried to assign speech all of the things he wished to communicate. The competing notions warred against each other. No, no—he should not compliment her beauty, for he was not in love with her beauty! He could not be so bold as to assume her feelings, no matter what the Princess Marya had reported. What, then?  
Pierre was suddenly struck by the immediacy of the moment, of every present and fleeting moment. It was not merely a song or a novel, where the ending was foretold. This was not one of the conversations he had carried on with her in his mind. Natasha was breathing at his side, her black hair gleaming with snow. Any step could be false. Any sentence would be impossible to rescind. The terror which follows the awareness of intractability filled his soul.  
“I once told you,” he stuttered, “when times were very different, that there is something I should ask you...if…”  
Natasha turned to face him, no longer able to feign lack of understanding. She shook her head. “Do not speak of those times! We were different then.”  
“Yes,” said Pierre. He eyes shone with fear beneath his spectacles. “I told you, that if I was not myself, I should be happy to ask you...for your hand.”  
They both blushed, remembering not only his words, but the circumstances of the moment and how much had changed since then.  
“Well,” said Pierre. “I have learned that it is impossible to not be myself. You see, Natasha,” he grew animated, and Natasha hid her smile, hearing the way he said her name thoughtlessly in his excitement. “We cannot escape ourselves. But, we may improve ourselves. And, still, as you have seen...I am different.”  
They fell silent.  
After a moment, Natasha said, “I have seen, Count.”  
Pierre found it impossible to continue. He had to fight against his own urge grasp her shoulders warmly, and hold her tightly as possible.  
“What I mean to say is…”  
It was too much. Pierre realized that he, in his coat, was kneeling onto the ground  
Natasha again had the impression of a beloved bear. Cumbersome and dear, he gazed at her with something beyond imploring.  
Natasha smiled. It was a smile of grace, of friendship, and love.  
“I love you,” she whispered. “You, yourself.”  
Pierre laughed, and did not know what to do. His knees were very wet. He reached for one of her hands, but Natasha had pulled her hands to her mouth. She realized his mistake and joined in laughing, and then took his hand in hers.  
Above them, the immortal stars sat impartial.  
Pierre Bezukov and Natasha Rostov laughed and laughed harder when they remembered they were standing in the cold.

And, with that, it was done.

II.

The engagement of Bezukov to Natasha Rostov was quite different than either of their previous engagements. For six months, the world, excited for a reprieve from the decimation of the war, speculated what kind of couple they might make. Some found the pairing odd, others found it well-suited, but all of fashionable society assumed they were entitled to an opinion (of the utmost importance) concerning the rightness of the match.  
But, as it would turn out, Natasha and Pierre made no attempts to be a fashionable couple.  
Pierre, though better loved for his new-learned humility, was still considered odd in his interests. He would draw conversations out of all his acquaintances, and then tirade them with a story about some obscure writing or conceit. They would nod and smile, not out of their own interest, but out of respect for the earnest delight with which Pierre spoke.  
Natasha, too, could only infrequently be bothered to sit in drawing rooms affecting those mannerisms deemed appropriate and polite. Her mischievous grin, seen again on the night of Pierre’s return, grew until it was her common expression. Though softened by wisdom, her signature self-satisfaction and charm was never far from her person. To those closest to her, it seemed that Natasha had united the different factions of her past temperaments: the impetuous joyfulness of childhood, the love-strickness of her young life, and the soulful patience which had most recently attended her through grief.  
She was more measured in her happiness and more calm in her sorrows. Yet, it was not Natasha’s love for Pierre alone which had reanimated her. Time and something deeper had worked itself on Natasha: a tempered respect for herself and those around her. No longer did she feel a drive to delight others. Rather, she was satisfied with the knowledge that there was charm aplenty in thoughtfulness, generosity, and personal happiness.  
While Pierre had once berrated Helene’s intelligence as inauthentic, Natasha’s quick mind was a constant marvel to him. He found, however “unwomanly,” his scholarly pursuits, Natasha was not only capable of hearing, but of absorbing his reports with luminous focus and curiosity.  
Yes! He seemed to be saying, whenever he beamed with pride, watching her. Look at my clever wife!  
Indeed, their chief delight when in company was to rally the room in a lively debate. While others may have clucked at Pierre, drinking and raising his voice in excitement, slamming cutlery with his large hands, and Natasha, tugging on his shoulder, laughing, and making ridiculous jokes, the two objects of suspicion did not mind in the least. They were challenged and contented by each other, and that was enough.  
When Natasha decided she would like to have a child, she gave up on maintaining the fixtures of society, though balls were still her especial delight. When the pair did grace the scene, they cut a fine picture on the dance floor. Ever quick on her feet, Natasha would prance up the halls. Pierre, at her side, would bounce like a ball, clumsy and grinning infectiously. Watching them, even the most refined members could not disapprove of the unfashionable couple. The delight in both of their faces, the synchronicity of their limbs, was testament to a well-made match, despite their many perceived failings.  
Asides from those occasions, the Bezuhov’s preferred the company of intimates in dining rooms, rather than salons. Natasha’s chief delight was in singing, his in travel; and they both reveled in their children. Before many years, four of those dashed through the house.

But, there are other events which occurred before that point, which must be addressed.

As is custom, the Bezukov’s arranged a grand party to celebrate their nuptials in the year of 1813. Everyone they adored and despised would attend.  
Among those, of course, was Sonya, an inseparable intimate of Natasha.  
Through the years, Sonya had waited her turn so patiently, that she had forgotten she was waiting. After Natasha no longer depended on her, Sonya found herself idle. It was an uncomfortable position for Sonya; Sonya, who always made herself useful; Sonya who needed to be depended upon. Though snidely despised in her position, she affixed herself to the old countess. There, Sonya endured taunts and tantrums. She endured these until she forgot she was enduring, and simply bowed below them, unhearing.  
As is often the case, one blow came quickly upon another.  
The following announcement of Nikolai Rostov’s engagement to Marya Bolkosy seemed only natural to Sonya. Though Sonya had released him, one unsanctimonious corner of her mind had prayed for personal triumph. This corner was renounced.  
Sonya had before counted the all happiest moments of her life as those spent in Nikolai’s presence. She realized, though, that she had not lived very much life.  
The eldest Rostov son had become a dream of salvation which had been abstracted from his person. Indeed, her image of Nikolai was so distanced from himself, Sonya had felt no difficulty maintaining her devotion the entire time he was soldiering; In fact, it may have been easier to stoke the flame in his absence. Then, the dream had lived with no complication of Nikolai’s faults and inattentions.  
If she had been raised differently, Sonya might have felt ill-used, but she could not muster any indignation. So all-encompassing was her dream, it seemed Nikolai must have been right to wed Marya. Marya was rich, and Sonya was poor, and Nikolai was doing his duty to his family by choosing someone pious and gentle and rich. Sonya disliked Marya, but could not hate the boy whom she had spent all her years loving.  
Sonya witnessed the union of her life-long love to another. She witnessed the Countess Rostov’s mistrust. She witnessed the Count Ilya Rostov’s failing health. At these events, Sonya wondered if her one chief wish in life—to be adored by the family Rostov—had no path to actualization.  
She could not mourn for what was lost, because she had never known what it was to belong to a family. She had never know what it was to be valued for herself.

Despite sorrow, Sonya appeared at her very best at Natasha’s wedding party. Her thick black braid encircled her pretty head. Her soft eyes betrayed no hint of her suffering, perhaps because Sonya would never think to name her condition as suffering.  
In the middle of the afternoon, Natasha sprung towards Sonya and embraced her.  
“My dear!” she kissed her friend’s cheek. “Yes! How glad I am to see you..! How glad…”  
“Oh Natasha, I am so happy for you!”  
For Sonya was. She was incapable of holding malice towards her friend.  
The two chattered contentedly, Natasha paying little mind to her other guests. Sitting to the side, they occupied themselves by remarking on the other attendees.  
“And did you see Boris and Julie? How grim they both looked!”  
“And Marya Dimetrievna is just the same!”  
“Just as grave!”  
“We must avoid Berg, look, he and Vera will not hush if we are spotted by them.”  
“Look,” Sonya pointed. “There is Dolokhov, dancing. Do you remember…”  
Sonya trailed off. She had been about to say, “do you remember, he fought alongside Petya;” and she stopped for fear of evoking grief. But, Sonya suddenly remembered that, very long ago, Dolokhov had looked at her, Sonya, with fondness. She feared it seemed as though she had acknowledged Dolokhov merely to boast about his former attentions. She blushed. Then, she worried her blush seemed further proof of this selfishness.  
Sonya could see no way to correct her mistake without increasing it. The best she could do was to sit awkwardly.  
Natasha espied her friend’s red countenance. She glanced between Sonya and Dolohkov. The latter looked about smugly, waiting for a partner.  
“You must go to him!” Natasha cried.  
Sonya’s face grew pained. “No, I did not mean—I do not wish!”  
“You must dance, Sonya! Everyone must be happy, even you.”  
“Are you happy?”  
For a moment, a shadow of gloom flitted across Natasha’s face.  
“Yes,” she answered. “I do not know if this was meant to be, or something was mixed up along the way. I cannot think of that—”  
“But I know,” she said, smiling once more, “that I will be very happy from now on.”  
Indeed, Natasha looked more peaceful than she had in a very long time. She had grown healthier and plumper since going to Moscow with Marya, and only a hint of the sorrow remained; she had never been more beautiful, for joy is the soul of external beauty.  
Sonya had hoped to distract from the awkwardness of Dolokhov, but Natasha was still gazing at her expectantly.  
“Do not have me dance with him,” she pleaded. “Look, someone else! There is Denisov!”  
Without thinking, Sonya found herself standing. Natasha was smiling, and anything was better than following Dolohov, who would see her as pitiful. Sonya found herself walking to Densiov. He was in the corner, twirling his mustache and speaking to a gentleman who’s face was turned from her.  
Upon seeing her approach, he bowed. The other gentleman turned—and Nikolai Rostov also inclined his head.  
Sonya almost fled, but the two men spoke. Surely, it would be more rude of her to go than to stay.  
Sonya thought that, perhaps, she imagined a hint of pity on Nikolai’s face. Before she could be sure of it, his eye fell on something across the room, and such Sonya looked where he did.  
The princess Marya was speaking to Natasha. Nikolai looked at his betrothed with such rapture, Sonya’s dream could hold no more.  
All the while she was absorbed in watching the Count, Denisov had been speaking.  
Guilty for ignoring him, Sonya turned her attention back towards his speech just in time to hear him ask:  
“Would you care to dance?  
Without a glance towards Nikolai, still enveloped in his bride, Sonya nodded.

While they danced, a strange feeling came over Sonya. Firstly, never had she danced with such a skilled partner. Secondly, never had she felt so attended to by a person.  
Though their conversation consisted chiefly of pleasantries, he listened to her responses and replied easily. He was in a humorous mood and determined to joke with her.  
Sonya did not know that Denisov had always thought of her as the most kind and worthy of women. For a moment, after the rejection of Natasha, he had even looked to her before forgoing the impulse and leaving in haste. Though his esteem had not been dramatic nor encompassing, the thought once more occurred to him, while they were dancing.  
Sonya, suspecting none of this, wondered if she caught a flash of embarrassment.  
“Are you well?” she asked pleasantly.  
The dance had ended and they were looking for seats.  
“Yes!” he answered. “Never been better. You must allow me to fetch you a dghrink.”


End file.
